


Tin Soldier

by l_cloudy



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: First Time, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Remix, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-22
Updated: 2015-06-22
Packaged: 2018-04-05 13:04:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4180872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/l_cloudy/pseuds/l_cloudy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They are not the same boys who left home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tin Soldier

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jain/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Heroes' Journey](https://archiveofourown.org/works/862252) by [Jain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jain/pseuds/Jain). 



> Also alternatively titled, ' _Heroes’s Journey: The Angst Remix_ ’.

The Bucky Barnes who stumbles out a burning factory in Italy is not the same Bucky Barnes who used to go to the dance halls and baseball games back home, strutting around Brooklyn like he owned the place, smiling brighter than the sun.

This Bucky is covered is blood and mud and piss, pale and shaking, his fingers twitching around the trigger of the Thompson in coiled rage, jaw clenched so tight it’s a wonder he can speak at all. Steve looks at him, and mourns the boy Bucky Barnes used to be.

They’re almost halfway to the base when they get a chance to talk, after most of the excitement and euphoria has died down and all that’s left is the hypnotic fatigue of putting one foot in front of the other – and again, and again. Steve himself is starting to space out; he can’t imagine how it must be for Bucky, who’s looking like he’s only holding up by sheer force of will.

“So–” Bucky begins, and he has to stop when his voice breaks, and whether is because of pain or thirst or disuse or something deeper, more visceral – whatever it is, Steve can only guess. Bucky’s walking with a determined look on his face and his back straight like a statue, and the only hint of anything resembling emotion on his face is when Steve catches him staring – puzzled, wondering, awed.

Steve doesn’t mind. He likes Bucky looking at him.

“So,” Bucky says again, this time with the hint of a smile. It looks out of place, like he’s trying too hard; but Steve’ll take it. “Captain America, uh?”

And it’s like they’d rehashed this. Steve smiles back even though it’s not that funny; self-deprecating like the comment was the last thing he’d wanted to hear while just the sound of Bucky’s voice is the best thing that happened to him since the serum.

“I didn’t pick the name,” he says, and Bucky grins back, and it’s almost like old times – and would you look at that, apparently Captain America can’t take Bucky’s smiles any more than Steve from Brooklyn could.

“I watched your films, you know,” Bucky keeps going. “Very patriotic.”

And they’re good, just like that; and Steve nods and smiles and resolutely ignores that part of his brain that keeps whispering how Bucky –

– there’s something _odd_ that…

They’re good, Steve tells himself. Everything’s good.

**

Bucky’s up and about less than two hours after Steve saw him on his way to Medical to get checked, and Steve’s almost ready to murder whoever let the _obviously injured man_ out of bed – except Bucky’s walked almost twenty miles and he’s still somehow looking better than he did the night before, strapped to that table.

“I’ve got enough wounded over here to fill up all my beds and then some, Captain,” the base doctor tells him, with the sharp tones of someone who knows won’t be getting much sleep anytime soon. “Can’t really spare anything for Sergeant Barnes right now, and he’s looking a damn sight better than half the 107th put together.”

And that’s good to hear, really, even if Steve saw Bucky back in that factory, saw him _with his own eyes_ , stumbling and sweating and wincing with every step. Bucky was hurt and now Bucky’s not and Steve’s too relieved, too _delighted_ to care.

That’s also how they end up sharing the narrow cot in Steve’s tent, lying shoulder to shoulder pressed closely together; and Steve closes his eyes basking in the steady sound of Bucky’s heartbeat, exhaling slowly. It’s cold outside, and damp; and he’s suddenly remembered of all the winters back home, wheezing and coughing tucked neatly against the warmth of Bucky’s body.

“You’re taller than me now,” Bucky says, apropos of nothing. He must have noticed it earlier – he’s wearing Steve’s pants right now, too long and big on his lean frame, how could he _not_ notice – but it’s a whole different thing, seeing the way their bodies fit together now. “I bet the ladies must love all this.”

Steve’s never really going to like talking about _women_ with _Bucky_ , but he understands the need to keep the conversation going, offer some mindless chatter to dull out the noises inside both their minds.

“It’s a little strange,” Steve says, and Bucky snorts.

“I bet.”

Bucky’s voice is strangely hypnotic, tense and resigned, tired and restless at the same time, and Steve thinks he knows how that feels. He remembers all the times he’d been sick in the hospital, fighting to keep his eyes open, scared shitless that he’d never wake up again if he slept, and how Bucky had been there at his side, cracking jokes and talking far too loudly trying to get his mind off things.

Steve figures it’s his turn now.

“There’s this girl I met,” he starts. “Sarah, from Philly. I think her cousin was one of the girls with the tour, so one day we all went –”

“I knew this guy from Philly,” Bucky cuts in. “Just a kid, really. I think he went to one of your dumb-ass shows, couldn’t stop talking about it.”

“I can imagine,” Steve says, drily.

“It sounded interesting,” Bucky agrees. “So, Willy. Couldn’t have been more than eighteen, nineteen, had a sweetheart waiting at home. And for some strange reason…” and here his voice starts to break, and Steve doesn’t want to know how this story ends; but it’s too late. “Once we’re at the factory, he’s the one Herr Schmidt wants.”

“Bucky…”

“And so I say,” Bucky cuts him off again, breathless, and Steve can hear the _dum-dum-dum_ of Bucky’s heart speeding madly under his ear. “So I think, he’s a good boy and his ma’s only kid, so I tell Schmidt to take me instead and every day – every day I was strapped on that table I thought at least it was just me. You know. If I died they’d have picked someone else, so.”

Steve doesn’t quite know what to say after that, not really – he doubts anyone could, so he just settles for shifting a little bit and trading one hand through Bucky’s damp hair, like his mother used to do to him when he was sick. Like _Bucky_ used to, a couple years and forever ago.

He doesn’t even realize it when they both fall asleep.

**

Bucky has nightmares, of course. He’s sobbing and trashing and whimpering when Steve shakes him awake, and he’s never felt more helpless in his entire life.

**

The first time that it happens, they’ve been with Commandos for about two months and sharing their covers for even longer than that. It’s a habit for the two of them by now – it _helps_ , with Bucky’s nightmares and the freezing cold of the Alps; and maybe it’s nice to know that Bucky needs Steve as much as Steve’s always needed him.

So they sleep together, night after night; and it’s winter and they are at war, and no one says a thing.

The first time it’s just –it’s a fleeting moment, Steve brushing Bucky’s soaked hair away from his forehead, fingers trailing lightly against the paleness of the sweaty skin, and he thinks, _Oh_.

Steve’s always known Bucky was beautiful; it’s not exactly an Earth-shattering revelation. _Bucky_ has always known how damn pretty he was, though he wouldn’t quite use that word, but still– the vainest boy in all of Brooklyn, couldn’t pass a window without smiling at his reflection. But this is different, a sweeping realization born amidst war and death and constant fear – he _loves_ this man. He, Steve Rogers, loves James Barnes with every fiber of his being, as wrong and messy and complicated it all is. He’s all done for; no way back, not ever.

Which is, naturally, the moment when his dick decides to suddenly take an interest in what’s going on, because Bucky looks just so _perfect_ like that, all mussed and unkempt, head thrown back and red lips parted in his sleep.

So that’s uncomfortable, to say the least – it’s not like Steve’s never rubbed one off thinking of Bucky’s eyes and smile and the lightness of his touch, but the closeness makes everything worse, somehow. It feels so terribly _filthy_ now to even think about it, like the Catholic in him is coming out all of a sudden, and Steve’s face goes up in flames when Bucky snaps his eyes open, staring straight into Steve’s.

“I think ya need a little help with that,” Bucky says, and he’s not cocky, or teasing, or anything Steve had ever imagined he would be, in those rare fantasies he’d allowed himself. He’s earnest, almost sweet, like they’re all still sleeping and it’s just a dream.

Steve licks his lips – once, twice, cracked and salty with blood – and then looks at the dark shape of Bucky’s form, wishing he could see his face a little better. He’s all white skin and red lips and blue eyes, and he wonders if Bucky can feel his pulse running madly under the sweaty skin.

“Are you sure?” Steve asks, just a whisper, and the whole time he’s thinking _please, please let him say yes_.

“Yeah,” Bucky says, and Steve can’t believe this is happening, that it’s _Bucky_ with his hand on Steve’s dick, whispering against Steve’s neck. “Wanna make you feel good.”

And it’s _just_.

Perfection doesn’t get much closer than this.

**

The next morning, they don’t talk about it.

**

They don’t talk about it the next morning, or the day after that. They don’t talk about it at all, even when it keeps happening again and again, just another bullet point on Captain America’s daily routine – hide in the mud, shoot some Nazis, jerk off Stg. Barnes quietly under the covers. They don’t talk about it and maybe Steve should do _something_ about this whole thing, instead of sulking and pining and spend his days wondering if whatever is that they have will survive talking about it.

The thing is. It’s good, what they have – easy friendship by day, mutual comfort at night – but Steve doesn’t want to _settle_ , not anymore. Steve wants Bucky in all the way one person can possibly have another; wants to caress Bucky’s face and kiss Bucky’s lips and run his tongue down the hard planes of Bucky’s body, entwine their fingers together as they fall asleep.

Steve _wants_.

**

It goes like this: it’s early March, and they’re in some tiny town in the middle of nowhere – or the French Alps, which is pretty much the same thing according to Bucky – and by some miracle Steve manages to find them a _room_ , an actual place with four walls and a roof and an actual bed to lie in; and if whatever booze they scrapped up isn’t enough to give Steve even a light buzz, well. That won’t stop them.

So they’re in the room, Steve and Bucky, drinking and talking about nothing and pretending they’re back in Brooklyn, and at some point Steve must look at Bucky in a certain way, because Bucky –

– and it’s always Steve who _looks_ and Bucky who _offers_ –

Bucky raises one eyebrow in Steve’s direction and says, “What, you wanna do that _now_?” like he’s surprised and nonchalant all at once, and he spreads down more comfortably on the bed, blinking for a moment when Steve leans down to kiss him lightly on the lips, just the briefest of touches.

He frowns a bit and licks his lips, as if trying to chase some elusive taste and Steve swallows – does he know, he wonder, how _perfect_ he looks like that; does he have any idea…

“You don’t need to kiss me, y’know,” Bucky says. “I’m not a girl.”

“I know,” Steve nods, voice low. Does he know, he’s still thinking. Has Bucky got any idea of how much, _how fucking much_ –

“I just wanted to, that’s all.”

That night, in the tiny French village in the middle of nowhere, Steve undresses Bucky slowly because he wants to _see_ , for the first time, how he looks like _this_. Bucky looks up at him with this strange looks in his eyes, winces a bit like he’s ashamed – and why would Bucky think that, doesn’t he know he’s _flawless_? – but then he just smiles and cups Steve’s face with one hand.

“That’s it?” he asks, softly. “That’s what you want, Stevie?”

And Steve just – he _melts_ , at that. He’s never wanted anyone as much as he wants this man, never loved anyone half as much; wishes he knew the words to explain how utterly, completely _gone_ he is.

But he doesn’t; so he just shows him, shows his love with light butterfly kisses and slow strokes of his tongue and tender whispers against Bucky’s skin, and he thinks that’s a little like Heaven must feel like.

**

They still don’t talk about it.

**

Whatever talking they started do gets sidetracked when Bucky stops for a moment in the middle of cleaning himself up to ask Steve just where he _learned to_ _do that_ , and Steve remains paralyzed for a second trying to figure out what’s the socially acceptable response to such a question.

“Art school,” he says in the end, with a laugh that studiously downplays almost six months’ worth of a relationship that started and ended with the achingly certainty that, _he’s not Bucky and never will be_.

Steve laughs; Bucky just frowns. “So,” he begins, “Like you’re queer?”

And then there’s that.

Steve kind of wants to tell Bucky that it’s not _nice_ to go around calling people _queer_ like that, especially not people who had your dick in their mouth literally ten minutes ago. He kind of want to ask Bucky what exactly he thinks they’re doing then. He kind of wants to know what –

He doesn’t. He doesn’t really want to know.

**

They never talk about it, in the end. Steve loves Bucky to the point where it get ridiculous, and Bucky… loves Steve, and that much is a fact. Not in quite the same way, maybe. And maybe they should talk about it; but everything is hanging by a thread right now, things are perfect _just so_ , and Steve likes their fragile equilibrium too much to risk shattering it. He goes to war and hides in the mud and shoots some Nazis, and he’s pretty sure Bucky will let him fuck him if he asked. Steve wonders what the hell they’re doing, where the hell they’ll end up.

Sometimes Steve doesn’t want the war to end.

**Author's Note:**

> Many apologies for how utterly _weird_ this is. It went its own way completely ignoring whatever I meant to write, and then RL ensued in the form of family drama before I had time to whip it into shape. Hope it’s at least somewhat acceptable?


End file.
